The Ripple Effect
by Paulerro
Summary: Every action has a consequence; a pebble thrown in a lake may produce ripples that reach the other shore, one person can change the course of history. When an Alliance Marine, Edward Lake, gets caught up in the events of Mass Effect, the ripples he makes may alter things far beyond that which we know. Initially stays close to canon, but as time goes by will diverge. Eventual AU.
1. Prologue: Anger

**My first Mass Effect fanfic! Standard disclaimer – Mass Effect and all associated names, trademarks, etc. belong to Bioware, I don't own anything except my original characters.**

**I've been working on this for a while now, and I have a whole story planned out right up to the end of ME3. With any luck, I will actually manage to finish it – and perhaps gather a crew of followers as I do ;) So, without further ado, Paulerro Productions Proudly Presents:**

_**The Ripple Effect**_

**Prologue: Anger**

* * *

><p><strong>Light Cruiser, SSV <strong>_**Southampton, **_**Main Deck  
><strong>**21:46 Universal Time  
><strong>**Thursday 15th**

There are so many different ways that soldiers have of preparing for combat. Some use bravado to psych themselves and each other up. They shout and roar, chest-pounding and backslapping in a barbaric but effective display of strength. Others methodically strip down and reconstruct their weapons, inspecting every piece for flaws in a meticulous and almost ritualistic process. Some listen to music — in my experience usually either martial or heavy metal. The more solemn or religious types meditate or pray, while yet others content themselves with engage in idle banter or discuss the mission for the hundredth time.

Myself, I read poetry.

People have told me in the past that it's not 'manly' or 'tough' to read poetry. To them I reply, I am six foot one barefoot; I'm an Alliance Marine, in the N program, rated N4 so far; I'm a Weapons Specialist, which means I know more about every type of mass-produced weapon, and dozens more specialty ones, than half of the rest of my unit combined. I'm tough enough. Get over it.

Right now, I'm reading — or rather, was reading — Edgar Allan Poe's _The Raven_. It's an old favourite.

A hand comes crashing down on my shoulder, interrupting my musings.

"Lake agrees with me. Don't you, Lake?"

I close the text window on my omnitool and look up at Deeko's expectant face.

"Sure, Deeko," I say, nodding emphatically. "You're absolutely right."

"Ha!" the giant of a man laughs triumphantly.

I give him a moment to savour it before I add, with perfect comedic timing,

"So, what are we talking about?"

His face falls miserably, but he brightens again at the smattering of laughter from the other Marines. A self-depreciating grin on his face, he punches me in the shoulder.

The squad's only N6, Allan Momsen, who's just months away from getting his N7 rating and is sitting opposite me, fills me in on the conversation.

"Well, we were discussing _Fleet and the Flotilla_…"

"What, _again_?" I interject, bringing more laughs.

Momsen shakes his head disparagingly at me before continuing, "Sulla here," he nods at Janet Sulla, one of only three women on the squad, and an N4 like myself, "was arguing that the romance in the vid was totally unrealistic–"

Sulla elbows him in the ribs, cutting him off. "_Not _what I said," she says waspishly. "What I said was that having a _quarian_ as the love interest was unrealistic. I mean, it's a quarian. There's no way one would dare seek a lover outside the Fleet."

"And I say she's wrong," Deeko puts in. "I say why not? They're just as likely to go for an interspecies relationship as any other race; it's just more difficult for them because of their reputations and the suits and stuff and all." He looks questioningly at me. "So, you agree or not?"

I shrug. "I guess so. I mean, I've never met a quarian myself, so I don't know how they think or anything…yeah, I can't say."

Deeko seems unsatisfied. "No, seriously though," he pushes stubbornly, "the quarians have got to have the same urges as us, right? So —"

At that point the comm comes to life with the captain of the _Southampton_'s clipped tones. "Attention all crew, we have immobilised the target and are moving in to initiate docking. Marines, stand by for boarding. Hull contact in T minus one."

Our CO and trainer, a lieutenant with the rank of N7, stands up and waves an arm above her head. "Alright, you heard the man," she barks. "Helm up and make ready, I want us hustling as soon as those doors open!"

There's a clatter as the squad, twenty marines strong, get to their feet and secure their helmets. I catch Sulla making a face at my helmet — she's always felt that the white-on-black skull emblem I've painted on my faceplate is tacky — and I, very maturely, stick out my tongue. She laughs and shakes her head at me, pulling her own helmet on a moment later and hiding her vivid purple hair beneath its dull black and blue steel.

I pull my personal weapon from my back; a much-modified Kovalyov Mk. VIII. I've tweaked and altered it a lot since I picked it up four months ago, so that it now hits almost twice as hard as a standard model while only decreasing the effective number of rounds before cool-down is required by a fifth. I call it _Alpha._

We form up into four teams of different sizes, with the first two right by the airlock doors, guns shouldered and aimed. The other two hang back and to the sides, waiting for the signal to storm the enemy ship. It's a batarian slaver vessel, a converted merchant ship capable of transporting around two hundred slaves and up to forty slavers, according to Intel. Named the _Gunnak_, it is the flagship and sole survivor of a slaver fleet that had attacked over a dozen colonies before finally being brought to battle by the Alliance and shattered. Operation BRUSHFIRE, of which I and themy squad are is a part of, is basically just clean-up after that. It's been two months since the start of the operation, and we've been hunting the _Gunnak_ specifically for a week and a half now. In a few minutes, the doors will open and this mission will finally be over – and, with any luck, I'll be an N5.

Our lieutenant, Maria Enriquez, opens a squad-wide channel.

"Alright people, stick to the plan. Squad one, we're cutting a path straight to the bridge. Squad two, down to engineering. Squad three, you're on crowd control, crew quarters. Squad four, to the cargo bay and the slave pens, clean up any stragglers and secure the captives. Hit them hard and fast, don't let them have a moment to breathe."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!" we reply as one. An icon flashes in my helm display; the lieutenant has opened a private channel between us.

"Lake," she says quietly, "I don't want another 'collateral damage' incident, understand? Three counts is enough, you really don't need the reputation of a butcher. If there's a hostage situation and you can't see a way to deal with it without killing or maiming the hostage, wait for back-up. We clear, Lake?"

"Crystal, ma'am," I reply, and she closes the link.

Beside me, Sulla nudges my arm gently. "Lt. read you the riot act again?" she asks softly over a private channel.

I shrug slightly. "Yeah. No big deal, I'll be good."

"Sure you will," Sulla replies, and I hear the smile in her voice. "Good luck, Ed," she adds softly, with a tap on my gauntlet.

"You too, Jan," I reply, tapping hers in return. "Be safe," I add. Out of all my squad mates, Janet Sulla is the one I'm closest to. She's almost like another younger sister to me.

A loud clunk echoes through the bay, and I look up to see the door access light cycling. I breathe out slowly, and then back in slowly, and flex my fingers around the grip of my rifle. In front of me, teams One and Two have their weapons held ready, bayonets armed. Orders are that the initial charge and boarding was to be made with 'cold steel', just in case the batarians are using living shields. A marine in Team One raises her hand, a flashbang in her fist. "Mark," she says, over the comm. "Three…two…one…fire in the hole!"

At _one _the doors began to open; as soon as they are wide enough, her arm snaps down, hurling the flashbang through the gap. Everyone turns away briefly – we're all out of sight anyway, but there's no pain in caution – and the second it has gone off, teams One and Two pivot through the doorway. There are a few brief yells, a short scuffle, then the Lt.'s voice comes over the comm.

"Clear," she says, and the rest of us move in. Teams One and Two are already moving off at the double, one to the right and one to the left; I and the other two members of team Three sprint off towards the stairs, hopping over the dead bodies. I'm on point, so I take the stairs first, leaping up them two at a time, keeping my rifle aimed at the higher stairs as I go. As I round the stairwell at the top, a burst of automatic fire rips across the wall beside my head and I instinctively jerk back around the corner.

"Contact," I say sharply. "Five hostiles, behind a makeshift barricade."

"Hostages?" Momsen, the team Three lead, asks, and I shake my head. He nods and taps Sulla on the shoulder, who pulls a flashbang from her belt. She activates it, holds it for two seconds, then lobs it round the corner. It explodes in mid-air a moment later, and I immediately pivot around the corner onto one knee, rifle at my shoulder. I fire short bursts, no more than three rounds a time, aiming for the heads of the batarians I can see. Three of them are still exposed above the barricade, reeling from the effects of the flash bang and without the sense to drop down behind cover. They die quickly, blood spattering the walls, and I waste no time pushing forwards, charging the barricade. Rounds whine past me from behind – Sulla is laying down a little cover fire, forcing the two remaining batarians to keep their heads down. In five long strides I'm at the barricade, and two short bursts later the corridor is clear. Momsen passes me, stepping over the barricade like it isn't there.

"I'm point man from here," he says. "Crew quarters are in ten metres. Lake, I want you hanging back, ready to lay down suppression. Sulla, on my six."

I nod, replacing _Alpha_ on its magnetic strip and slinging out my sniper rifle, a Harpoon Mk. IX with a personalised scope and some extensive barrel modifications that allow me to use specialised anti-materiel rounds. Definitely not standard issue, definitely not cheap, but the dinner-plate-sized hole they leave makes it well worth it. I named her _Gamma_. I trail four steps behind Momsen and Sulla as they approach the doors to the crew quarters, which are closed and locked. Momsen gestures as we reach them, and he and Sulla crouch on opposite sides of the door.

Just then, the Lt.'s voice comes over the comm. "Bridge is secure. We're mopping up."

I glance at the time on my HUD — it's been barely a minute since boarding. Impressive. Unclipping a pair of flashbangs from my waist, I nod to Momsen, who begins hacking the door controls with his omnitool. I wet my lips, tensing slightly, as the door lock begins cycling; the second it starts to open I prime the flashbangs and hurl them through the gap, lowering my flash visor immediately after. The light and sound of the blast is muted effectively, and split-seconds after they go off Momsen and Sulla open up at the disoriented batarians inside. Flicking out _Gamma_'s bipod, I lay prone on the ground and add my contribution to the fighting, putting a round through a batarian's head almost immediately. The crew quarters are pretty spartan – triple bunks in two rows, one down each side of the long, featureless room. The batarians inside, about fifteen or so, have tried to use the bunks as makeshift barricades, but thin mattresses and wire frames make for poor cover. It's almost pathetically easy, I think to myself, shooting out a batarian's hip through the bunk he's crouching behind, then finishing him off with a shot through the head as he jerks in agony. It's over in less than a minute.

"Team Three, objective taken," Momsen says over the comm. "Mopping up now."

There's a momentary pause, then the Lt. replies. "Good work, team Three. Be ready to give assistance to teams Two and Four if they need it."

"Copy that," Momsen answers, and closes the link. He glances at me. "Did any of yours have shields?" he asks.

"None," I answer, shaking my head. "Nor any decent armour."

"Same here," Sulla adds, coming over to stand beside me. "No skill, either. I'm thinking these were just the crew, not the slavers proper."

Momsen nods. "I agree. Probably the slavers are on the bridge or in the cargo bay with the captives." He opens a channel with team Four's lead. "What's your situation, Jones?"

Jones' – Corporal Peter Jones, N5 – is apparently under some stress, because his reply is loud enough to cause me to wince. Gunfire echoes in the background. "Heavy resistance, but nothing we can't take care of," he snaps.

"We're done up here if you need a hand," Momsen says, his voice cool in contrast.

"Thanks, but we're fine," Jones replies. "If we need help I'll ask for it." He disconnects immediately after.

Sulla shrugs. "Looks like we're just on mop-up duty then," she says, resting her rifle on her shoulder.

"Looks like," Momsen says, and glances round. "Lake, you and Sulla head thataway," he motions to a corridor leading out of the crew quarters to the left of us. "I'll take thisaway. Standard procedure. Move out."

"Sir, yes sir," we reply in concert, and move off. I swap _Gamma _back for _Alpha _as we leave the room.

"So," Sulla says, as I check a shower room, "you think we'll find any decent loot aboard?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Anything's possible. Wouldn't get my hopes too high, these are _batarian_ slavers, after all."

Apart from a batarian hiding in a locker, who lunges at me with a wicked-looking knife when we spring him and gets a round through his neck for his trouble, we find absolutely nothing as we move through our section of the ship. A couple of messages come over the comm as we search: team Two have completed their objectives and are engaged in mop-up operations as well, and the Lt. has found a comprehensive list of the slavers' contacts. About three minutes later, though, team Four come in over the comm.

"Need assistance," Jones says, his voice strained. "We're pinned down, they're using the captives as living shields and trying to get to an escape shuttle."

"Numbers?" the Lt. asks sharply.

"I count thirty-plus, with heavy armour and shields. Five MGs, plus three snipers in the gantries."

"Everyone, converge on the cargo bay. Engage on sight." The Lt. is obviously on the move as she speaks, her words slightly choppy.

Sulla and I are already running, having started moving as soon as Jones' voice came over our comms. As we move, I bring up an updated blueprint of the batarian ship, searching for the quickest route to the cargo bay. A small flashing icon catches my attention and I grab Sulla's arm, pulling her to the side.

"Hey, what-?" she starts, but shuts up when I yank off the access grille to the maintenance shafts. According to the schematic, we could use the shafts as a back door into the cargo bay – they were a holdover from when the ship was still a legitimate merchant vessel, and were designed to allow emergency access for maintenance squads to any part of the ship. The only drawback is that quiet movement inside is impossible; our movements echo like nobody's business. I console myself with the thought that at least there will be too much gunfire for the slavers to really hear us coming.

We emerge from the maintenance shaft as quietly as we can. I realise that, inIn a stroke of luck, we've emerged behind and about fifteen feet to the right of the main slaver group, taking shelter behind a row of cages containing…about two hundred near-naked human and asari captives. Beyond them, about twenty feet away, is the slavers' escape shuttle, at present inaccessible to them due to Deeko's machine gun spraying the approach to it with tracer rounds. Their own MG's are pinning the rest of the squad down, though, and it looks like the slavers are trying to extend their slave cage wall to let them get to the shuttle. Once again I swap weapons, crouching and bringing _Gamma_ up to my shoulder. Silently, using battle-signs, I let Sulla know to take out the closest of the two batarian machine-gunners, while I deal with the other three. Looking down _Gamma_'s sights, I line up the first shot and mentally plan the progression over the others. At this range, my special rounds should go through whatever shields and armour they have in one shot. I breathe in, steady myself, then on the exhale I pull the trigger. I hold the scope steady until I see the batarian start to drop, then swing to the next and repeat. In five seconds my three are down. Beside me Sulla's assault rifle barks and her second target falls, as I switch my aim to the snipers in the gantries.

"Marines, hit 'em hard!" Sulla shouts over the comm, opening rapid fire into the batarians with short, sharp bursts that throw the startled and confused slavers into disarray. From the doorway I hear yells as the rest of the squad rush in, and within moments they're leaping over the cages into the batarians. Steel flashes and I realise they're doing this the old-fashioned way, to avoid any harm to the civilians. As the last batarian sniper falls from the gantries, I pull my knife out and charge in, veering left to cut off a slaver making a break for the shuttle. The batarians fight hard, but they are not trained for this as we are, so they fall easily. Finally, there are just four slavers left; the head of the operation, known only as Hurkah, and three of his personal bodyguards who are taking their job literally and actually shielding him with their bodies. As we close in on them, Hurkah shouts out a curse at us and raises his hand in the air.

"Take him out!" the Lt. screams, seeing what he is holding, but it's too late. Hurkah's thumb jabs down on the remote control he's holding, and with a whining groan the cargo bay doors begin to open.

Oh, fuck.

As the atmosphere inside the _Gunnak_ vents to space, everything not fixed to the ground going with it, I seize hold of a cage long enough to activate the grav-clips on my boots and force my flailing legs to the floor. Keeping the cages between me and flying objects, and carefully ignoring the suffering – no, dying – captives inside, I search the cargo bay for the door control panel. Searching for the remote is pointless, since Hurkah was one of the things to be yanked out into hard vacuum. The controls, I realise with a heart that has sunk further than I thought possible, are thirty feet away, right by the doors. Rolling my eyes, I release the grav-clips momentarily, letting myself get yanked off my feet and sucked almost to the doors before reactivating them and struggling to the control panel. I slam my fist on the 'close' panel, and the doors slowly begin to shut again.

Between the doors opening and closing, perhaps fifteen seconds have passed.

"Damn," the Lt. murmurs over the comm. Glancing round, I see her picking herself up from the floor beside the cages. I make a quick headcount, relaxing a tiny bit as I realise that none of my squadmates have been sucked out into space.

"Are they okay?" I ask, jogging back towards the cages.

"No clue," Sulla replies, jamming her knife into one and forcing it open. "They're going to need immediate medical attention. Too much air's been vented, the atmosphere's too thin to breathe."

The Lt. nods. "Ship is clear," she comms the _Southampton_. "Send in the med teams, asap. Have oxygen tubes sent over as well, we've lost most of our atmosphere."

"Copy that," the captain responds. "Medical teams moving in now."

Sulla elbows me sharply. "Give me a hand," she says, as she pulls a limp human woman out of the cage. I nod and step round her, bending over and gripping an asari under the arms to pull her out. We lay them on the floor in rows, trying our best to make them as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. I have to force myself to remain calm as I see the extent of their mistreatment: almost all are malnourished, to varying degrees, and all have been beaten, some worse than others. I carry out a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, whose back is covered with red and raw stripes that are only just scabbing up. As I lay her down, she clutches at my hand, trying to say something. I can't make it out – she's too weak, and the air in the ship at the moment is as thin as at the top of a mountain – but I can lip read well enough.

Don't leave me, she mouths, and I almost tear up.

"I won't," I murmur, kneeling beside her and holding her hand. She smiles weakly and grips my hand as tight as she can, which is to say not tightly at all.

"Lake, what are you–" Sulla begins, then sees her and stops mid-sentence. Jones glances over and shakes his head. "Figures," he says, the eye-roll evident in his voice. "The guy who has no problems with killing hostages is the guy who is most affected by this."

I don't bother replying, tuning him out as the Lt. snaps at him to shut up.

Now I'm not xenophobic, by any means. In fact, some might even go so far as to say I'm positively xenophilic. But batarians…I find it very, very hard to think of them as anything but monsters. I've seen the vids of Mindoir, hell, I've helped with with the in-system mop-up operations that are _still _going on. I've taken part in shutting down no less than twelve batarian slaver outfits. I doubt there's a decent batarian out there.

I hope not. Right now, looking into the eyes of this poor young girl, I'd gladly kill every last one of the bastards.

* * *

><p><strong>With many, many thanks to my awesome beta, Calcifer179!<strong>

**Please take a moment to review it – your feedback is the most important ingredient in the continued production of this story. Thank you :)**


	2. Chapter 1: Beacon

**My first Mass Effect fanfic! Standard disclaimer – Mass Effect and all associated names, trademarks, etc. belong to Bioware, I don't own anything except my original characters.**

**Well, I don't know how long it's been, but here we are, finally, with another chapter! So, without further ado, ****Paulerro Productions Proudly Presents:**

_**The Ripple Effect**_

**Chapter 1: Beacon**

* * *

><p><strong>Light Cruiser, SSV <strong>**_Southampton_****, Mess Deck  
>19:35 Universal Time<br>Saturday 17th**

The shape of the foot is wrong.

I frown and lay my pencil down, picking up an eraser. A few gentle strokes remove the offending lines, then I sketch it back in properly. Pursing my lips, I give it a critical look and then add more definition to the claws. Some quick shading under the toes and a quick glance over the rest, and I sit back with a satisfied sigh. Staring at me out of the page of my drawing pad is a raven, head cocked and looking back over its shoulder. Smiling a little, I sign my name on the corner of the page.

"Nevermore," I murmur to myself, picking it up off the mess table and holding it up vertically. Unbidden, a memory comes to mind: myself, years ago, putting my latest drawing, a kingfisher on a branch, up on my wall. My two younger sisters coo at it.

_"Draw one for me, Edward!" Mary, the elder of the two pleads, hugging my arm._

_"And me, and me," Alice, the younger, insists, pulling at my trouser leg. I laugh, pretending to struggle against them._

_"Alright," I say, smiling down at them. "I'll draw you each something. What do you want?"_

_"I want a pony," Alice says firmly. "A pretty pink pony, with flowers."_

_Mary bites her lip a moment, thinking. "A cat," she says eventually. "Like Misty!" At the mention of her name, my cat looks up from where she's curled lazily on my bed, napping in the sunshine._

"Nice bird," someone says, right in my ear. I jump, dropping my pad in surprise. Twisting round on the bench I glare at the offender, who smiles brightly at me. "Sorry," Janet says, not sounding sorry at all. "Did I make you jump?"

"Damn straight you did," I reply, bending over to pick the pad back up. On the way up I take a swipe at her knees, which she avoids easily. "I was…thinking."

"Oh?" she asks, moving round the table and taking a seat opposite me. "What about?" She waves a hand and grins, dismissing it before I answer. "Never mind, it's probably something really dull and art related. Who's the picture for?"

"Why d'you think it's for anyone?" I ask, carefully tearing the page out of the pad.

"You signed it," she points out. "You never sign the ones you keep. Everyone knows that."

I blink. "Wait, you guys noticed that? I didn't think anyone other than you really cared." Closing my pad and putting the drawing on top of it neatly, I shrug. "Anyway, I was going to give it to that girl."

"The girl from the _Gunnak_?" Janet clarifies. "You serious?"

"Yeah," I reply, feeling the tips of my ears going a little red. "She saw me drawing one time I visited her in the sickbay, and asked for one. I couldn't say no. I mean, she's about as old as my youngest sister'd be now."

Janet gave me a small smile. "That's sweet of you," she said. "Anyway, you looking forward to getting down to the surface?"

I nod. "Sure I am. It'll be nice to relax a bit, sleep in a proper bed. Maybe do a bit of hunting."

"Hunting?" Janet repeats, confused. "I didn't know there was anything to hunt."

"Well," I say, putting my various pencils back in their case, "maybe not originally. But some idiots introduced varren a few years back, and the farmers don't like that. There aren't that many livestock farms on Eden Prime, but there are enough that varren hunting is both legal and encouraged."

She raises an eyebrow. "Huh. I never knew that."

"I didn't either until I looked up 'things to do on Eden Prime' on the extranet earlier, after we dropped out of the relay." I flash her a grin. "It's called research, Jan. You should try it sometime."

She narrows her eyes at me, but before she can respond the intercom goes off.

"All marines to the briefing room," our CO's voice rings out. "All marines to the briefing room."

My gaze meets Janet's and we both stand up, me scooping up my things and tucking my pad under my arm.

"Somehow," I say, "I don't think that she wants to tell us to have a good time."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"Right, marines," Lt. Enriquez says once we've all filed into the briefing room. "Sorry to bring bad news, but your leave's on hold. I know, you're all disappointed," she carries on, raising her voice a little as groans and grumbles fill the room. I roll my eyes. Disappointed is an understatement.

"We've a new mission," the Lt. announces. "Priority Alpha, or I'd have asked that another unit take it instead."

More murmurs go round.

"Priority Alpha?" Janet mutters, leaning slightly towards me. "I don't think I've ever been on a Priority Alpha mission before."

The Lt. flicks her gaze across each of our faces before continuing. "Now, this is classified information, highest levels of secrecy." Her fingers tap at the keypad of her terminal, bringing up on the wall behind her an image of a thin grey monolith at the bottom of a pit. People in lab coats surround it, several with active omnitools. "This is a Prothean beacon," she states, pausing as the room buzzes with surprised noises. "Right, settle down. A science team discovered it a couple of weeks ago. Soon an Alliance ship will be here to take it to the Citadel, but until then its security is paramount. No-one really expects trouble, but the fact is that this beacon is unique. It's the first to ever be discovered intact, and there is no telling what knowledge it may contain. If news gets out, people will pay big money for it. We could face anything from bounty hunters to a full batarian invasion force, though that last is a bit unlikely. Whatever happens, it's our duty to protect the beacon at all costs." Glancing down, she taps a command into the terminal and the image of the beacon vanishes, replaced by a topographical map of the area. The dig site is in the centre, surrounded by gently rolling hills to the east and north. To the southwest is a cliff dropping to a lake side, and in the northwestern corner is a small spaceport. About half a kilometre from the dig site is a tram station, which connects to the spaceport. Blue dots spring up across the map.

"At the moment," the Lt. says, "the beacon is being guarded by Unit 212 of the 2nd Frontier Division. Your task is not to replace them, but to provide elite backup and support should it be necessary." She taps at her controls again, and the map zooms in on the dig site. "Four squads, same as always. I'll rotate periodically between squads. Squad one, you'll be stationed at the beacon itself." She highlights it in red. "I want you to keep watch round the dig site rim. If anything does happen and you're being engaged, it means the enemy will have got through everyone else. The beacon is your priority, unless the situation is untenable, in which case the scientists are the priority. Squad two, you're to keep a roving watch to the south. If elements of the 212 engage the enemy in your quadrant, you move in to assist. Squad three, the north. Squad four, the west. Same orders. If the beacon itself comes under attack and you are not engaged, move immediately to defend it. Should the beacon be captured and it is impossible to recover it, then you are to retreat and regroup at the spaceport. Any questions?"

Sulla raises a hand. "Ma'am, what's the ETA of the retrieval ship?"

The Lt. activates her omnitool and consults it a second. "It's ETA is approximately…on the 20th, at 21:00 Standard time. That translates to about 29:00 local time. In other words, you'll have three Standard days down there. And yes, that does mean no shore leave. Any other questions?"

"Ma'am, does the _Southampton_ have a role in protecting the beacon?" Momsen asks. The Lt. nods.

"The _Southampton _will be providing tactical information and overwatch as well as engaging any hostile craft that might arrive," she answers. "Anyone else?" When no-one steps forward with any more, she claps her hands. "Gear up, marines. I want us down on the surface in ten!"

As we file out of the briefing room, I catch a passing crew member's eye.

"Can you do me a favour?" I ask, handing him the drawing. "Give this to the girl in the medbay in bed 16, would you? Tell her I had to go and couldn't give it to her myself."

He eyes me curiously. "Sure thing," he says. "You know her or something?"

I roll my eyes. "No, she just reminds me of my little sister is all." With a parting clap on the shoulder I turn away, heading for the elevator that Sulla is helpfully holding open.

"Making sure your little sweetheart gets her present?" she murmurs slyly, poking me in the side.

"You're just jealous," I murmur back airily, folding my arms as we wait for the lift to complete its interminable descent.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

During the shuttle ride down to the surface, all anyone can talk about is the Prothean beacon. Speculations abound as to the nature of the information it holds. Deeko maintains that it must be information on whatever made the Protheans vanish; a warning, he says, to any species that might find it. Momsen thinks that's unlikely, arguing that it's most likely a general history of the Protheans.

"Most likely it's just like those time capsules people bury, you know? Bits and pieces of the culture and ideas of the time, for future generations to see." He waves a hand. "It'll probably have lots of Prothean pop music, maybe pictures of their favourite boy bands. The archaeo-anthropologists will have a field day."

Leaning in, Sulla whispers to me. "Don't tell him, but I think Deeko's actually got a point. I mean, all we know of the Protheans is they were a big empire and they just vanished, right? If we got attacked by something powerful enough to wipe out our entire species, we'd want to leave something behind so other species would know."

Her argument makes sense, but from what I remember of ancient human monuments, they all usually boasted of their builders' might and the enemies they defeated, not the people who defeated them. I tell her this.  
>"I mean, I remember when I was little I saw this documentary about the ancient Greeks, and it said that one of the older Greek civilisations had just been wiped out completely. They left a lot of preserved writings, but," I said, raising a finger, "one of the last of their recorded writings was just a list of sacrifices to their gods to ward off their enemies. They mentioned the enemies, but not like 'these are our enemies, they're so-and-so'." I pause for a second, trying to think of an appropriate comparison. "Like if the batarians invaded and annihilated us. We wouldn't leave a description of the batarians behind – we were killed by a levo species of alien with four eyes and mud-coloured skin – would we? There'd just be references in letters and things to 'batarians' and future archaeologists would have no clue what batarians were. That's what I think, anyway."<p>

Sulla nods slowly, taking in what I have to say. "Makes sense, I suppose. Still, I think that's what's in the beacon. How about you? What do you think is in there?"

I shrug. "I kinda agree with Momsen. It's probably just a time capsule type of thing. If we're lucky maybe it'll have schematics for a new gun. A proper laser gun would be nice." I make guns with my fingers and point them at Janet's face. "Pew pew!"

She slaps my hands away, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, right. Laser guns. If it's a time capsule it'll probably be just recipes for Prothean cupcakes or something."

"I could go for a cupcake right about now," I mutter, pretending to zone out.

"What's up with Lake?" Deeko asks, noticing my exaggerated pose.

"Cupcakes," Sulla replies, shaking her head.

"I could do with a cupcake myself," he says seriously, and Sulla laughs.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

We disembark from the shuttle at the double to be met by a detachment from the 212, led by a woman in white and pink armour.

"I'm not sure what to think of that," Sulla whispers to me as the Lt. strides forwards, and I agree. It's either a personal choice – embracing her femininity, perhaps? – or subtle discrimination.

The woman in pink armour salutes smartly.

"Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams of the 212," she says. "It's an honour to meet you."

The Lt. returns her salute. "Lieutenant Enriquez, N7. Heard good things about you, Chief."  
>I can't tell, but it looks like the Gunnery Chief stiffens at the Lt.'s words.<p>

"I assumed you'd want to be out in the field immediately, ma'am," the Chief says, "so I took the liberty of having bivouac kits prepared for you and your troops. They're over there," she gestures towards a row of tables to the side of the landing pad. "I've also had ration packs set out."

I share an impressed look with Sulla, mouthing 'Efficiency!' at her. She nods in agreement.

The Lt. thanks the Chief, turning to us.

"Alright, marines," she says. "You heard her; grab the gear and move out!"

As one we salute smartly before heading over to the tables in a considerably less professional manner, Sulla and I lagging behind.

"She seemed a little…stiff," I murmur to her. "Did you catch how she acted when the Lt. complimented her? That wasn't a happy response, least not in my books."

"Not surprised, if she is who I think she is," Janet replies. "You hear her last name?"

"Williams, right?" I say, my curiosity aroused. Before I can think of a Williams who was of any importance, she fills me in.

"A General Williams was in command at Shanxi. You should remember that, it's in Primary history."

Now it makes sense, I think. If she is a descendant of the General Williams who surrendered at Shanxi and was vilified for it, then I can imagine any number of difficulties being put in her path by more politically-minded soldiers and officers.

"She must have taken the Lt.'s words the wrong way then," I muse.

"No kidding," Sulla agrees, glancing back as we reach the tables and pick up our bivouac kits. "Betcha that armour she's wearing isn't her choice either."

I wince. "Probably not, no."

"Talking about the Williams girl?" Jones asks, bumping me with his elbow as he unnecessarily swaps the bivouac kit he picked up with another. "If you ask me, she's got some nerve being in the army. I mean, old White-Flag Williams was her granddaddy or something like, that's not something people forget."

I glance at him in disgust. "What, so because someone she's related to surrendered to an overwhelming force to save the lives of civilians we should discriminate against her?" I ask, realising too late what I said.  
>"Like <em>you<em> care about civilian lives?" Jones says, raising his eyebrows and hands in exaggerated surprise. "Guess I never got that memo, _Butcher_."

"Don't call me that," I say quietly, turning to face him full on.

"What, 'Butcher'?" he asks, taking a step forwards. "Don't like it? Tough, 'cause that's what you are. A damn bu–"

A hand comes down on his shoulder, and he shuts up abruptly as the Lt. leans in between us, appearing for all the world as if she's just having a friendly chat. Her voice low, she speaks perfectly calmly. "Jones, I don't want to hear another word from you until you're at your watch site, understood?" Without waiting for him to answer, she pushes him gently away.

"As for you, Lake," she says, turning to me, "I'll be honest. You'll notice your team's watch site is the furthest away from either the 212 or the scientists? That's because I can't have you being a liability if anything does happen. No," she forestalls my objection, "I don't care if you say you won't be, or what reasons you had in the past; the fact is that you have a history of which we are both aware, and as a responsible commanding officer I must put you in a position where you are least likely to shoot a hostage." She sighs, and looks at me reproachfully. "Do you really have to react to Jones, in front of those marines from the 212?"

"Sorry, ma'am," I reply. "Won't happen again, ma'am."

Lt. Enriquez shakes her head. "Carry on, marine."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am." I salute and move away, heading over to where Momsen and Sulla wait by the train. Momsen shakes his head sadly at me, and I spare him a dirty glare. Honestly, it's as if people don't care why I did what I did, or that I regret having had to do it. They just act like I'm dangerous, a loose cannon, and let Jones treat me like I'm some sort of psycho, enjoying killing helpless civilians. The worst of it is, no-one, not even Sulla, stops Jones from spouting off at me. The most I can expect is for the Lt. to tell him off for unprofessional behaviour if he starts up when we're in the field.

"Fucking Jones," I mutter under my breath, leaning against the side of the train car as it sets off. Sulla must have heard me, because she gives me a quick glance before going back to her conversation with Momsen. I couldn't care less at the moment. All I'm seeing right now are the tear-streaked faces of the three hostages I've killed, and the faces of their captors who'd died immediately after. One laughing, one arrogant and defiant, one desperate and angry. It's their faces I remember more clearly out of the six; the faces of the villains. The victims' faces are less distinct, and I can't even remember their names. I remember the names of the bastards who made their deaths necessary though; the asari Sana L'Gayb, human George 'Riptide' Wheeler, and batarian Gharsh Atrast. The galaxy's better off without scum like them.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The days pass slowly, with nothing much happening. We patrol back and forth, maintaining a schedule that has two on patrol at any one time while the third rests. The scenery is beautiful, particularly when the sun sets, hours after we arrive, and then rises again thirty-something hours later. The glass and steel of the spaceport in the distance flashes and gleams in the light, and during one of my rest periods I make a quick sketch of it in my pad.

The Lt. drops by at one point, patrolling with Momsen for an hour before leaving. I don't see her, as I'm at the far end of my own route, and I don't much care. I'm still angry. Once she's gone Momsen tells over the comm that apparently the retrieval team is going to be testing our defences, to see if we're as good as the Alliance tells the Council humanity are.

"Watch your fire," he says. "Switch to non-lethal mode." He pauses for a second and I sigh, already knowing what's coming. "Lt. wanted me to remind you that even if they are surprise combat-testing us, killing a fellow soldier is not something that can be explained or excused."

"Yeah, whatever," I snap, tuning out his reprimand for my insubordinate tone.

Eventually the time for the retrieval team to arrive draws near.

"Alright marines," Lt. Enriquez's voice comes over the comms. "Look alive and stay sharp, stated ETA of the retrieval team is four hours, but we all know how surprises work. Remember, non-lethals only."

Although it's my turn to be resting, I am awake.

"Momsen," I comm him, "I'm gonna go up high, keep a lookout over the approach from the train station. Don't worry, I'm not going to kill anyone today."

"Copy that," he replies, apparently deciding not to comment on my 'butcher' tendencies. "Keep us posted if you see anything."

"Of course," I say, and cut the connection.

Making sure my weapons are firmly on their magnetic strips, I pull on my helmet and start moving. There is a rocky outcrop nearby, with a commanding view of the road to the dig site from the train station as well as all the other possible approaches from the north. Although it's an obvious sniper nest, it is also the only viable sniper nest around. If I do it right, I won't be noticed.

The climb is not too tricky, though some loose rocks give me a moment of trouble. Finally I make it to the summit and hunker down behind a large boulder. With a series of taps on my omnitool I disable my shields. Although that makes me extremely vulnerable to being hit, it also means that they won't interfere with the workings of the tactical cloak I pull out from a belt pouch. Unholstering and unfolding _Gamma_, I make myself comfortable and raise the scope to my eyes, draping the cloak over myself. That done, I settle down to wait for any glimpse of the retrieval team. To the northwest I see a flash of sunlight off armour and check my hud – it's just Sulla, making her way slowly along a sunken path.

Nearly ten minutes later, a transmission comes in from the _Southampton_.

"All units, be advised; incoming contact from the relay. It's possibly…wait, cancel that, contact is an unknown dreadnought-sized ship. Attempting to make radio contact now; but be alert."

I blink in surprise. An unknown dreadnought? Why would the Council send a dreadnought to retrieve a beacon? Surely they didn't put that much importance –

"Contact is hostile, I repeat, contact is hostile! It is preparing to fire upon us – I repeat, it is preparing to f–"

The transmission cuts off dead, just as a flash of light lights up the sky over the spaceport.

* * *

><p><strong>With many, many thanks to my new betas: CelticGrace, Dorano1, Darth Kokkinos, and Whale of Toast Media!<strong>


End file.
